


Sleepless

by howterrifying



Series: The Denial Mode Series [13]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlolly - Fandom
Genre: F/M, Sherlolly - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:21:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24019675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/howterrifying/pseuds/howterrifying
Summary: Having been captured and brutally tortured, Sherlock finds rest and salvation in one person alone.(written 29 April 2015)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Series: The Denial Mode Series [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1732471
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	Sleepless

**Author's Note:**

> The Denial Mode Series began in the midst of me struggling to get through my soap opera of a multi-chapter fic, The Admirer. In between, as a sort of refresher, and also as my way of ‘denying’ I had stuff to work on, I would call out for these prompts. The call was to either send me a single word or a single song. I received all sorts of lovely responses and these are the stories that developed from them. They mean a lot to me and I remember every single one of them from just looking at their titles. I hope you will enjoy them as much as I enjoyed writing them. :) x
> 
> ::  
> welovesherlolly asked: I really really hope i'm not too late, but - sleepless
> 
> You weren’t late at all, my dear. :) Thank you for your prompt! Sherlock’s still hanging about in Eastern Europe, except this time, I’m referencing the opening torture scene in TEH. This one is a little darker than the rest. Nevertheless, I hope you’ll enjoy what I’ve done with your prompt. x
> 
> Rated T for violent imagery

**Sleepless**

It had been about two weeks since Sherlock’s capture, and his captors had developed a special way to hurt the detective. He would first be strung up by his wrists alone. Once he was suspended uncomfortably, stripped of his clothes of course, they would hit him. The violence executed was not crude or haphazard. Rather, it was meticulously calculated, designed to inflict only a specific sort of pain. Every strike to his skin was to ensure it split. Sometimes, the blood trickled slowly down, sometimes it would burst out angrily. The pain was excruciating, so much so that the detective no longer screamed and could hardly breathe after each session.

That was not the end though. They wanted to be sure that even in his cell, in his supposed moments of ‘reprieve’ between beatings, he would also suffer. They wanted him sleepless, aching, bleeding, wincing, which was why, after every session, Sherlock was sent off to get ‘stitched up’. He would be mercilessly attended to, having his wounds sewn up without any proper anaesthesia. The pain then was the worst. Only then would he scream whilst the ‘doctors’ laughed. After the supposed medical attention, he would be thrown back into his cell, only to be brought out the next day for his wounds to be re-opened from new beatings.

Another round of beatings had just finished and Sherlock had been untied and flung onto a stretcher where he was to be bound again. His captors wheeled him to the room where he was to have his wounds treated, in a manner of speaking. Once he was in, they left him with whoever the doctors were in charge, knowing he was too weak to do anything. They barely bothered to shut the doors now, leaving it ajar as they left the prison to return to their drink and gambling.

Sherlock lay on his stretcher, choking from the pain and blinking away the blood that had dripped into his eyes. He willed himself to separate from the pain, to detach his mind from his nerves, his soul from his body. It was impossible as the pain shot through him tirelessly, through every part of his body.

Just then, footsteps emerged and he heard the voices of two people. They spoke in Serbian of course, their voices muffled behind their medical masks. The doctor did not seem to talk much, but from what rusty Serbian Sherlock had mustered, he could tell that the doctor had just sent the assistant away for some equipment they had forgotten.

The detective shut his eyes and clenched his teeth, preparing for the worst. To his surprise, he heard the door clang shut and the sound of it locking from inside. The assistant had not returned, which was perplexing. When he opened his eyes, the dreaded figure decked out in full medical scrubs from head to toe approached him. He flinched when the gloved hands came into view, hovering menacingly above him. As they got nearer, he began to buck automatically against the restraints that bound him to the stretcher.

In his struggle, he did not notice that the gloves had been peeled off and that two bare hands descended upon the sides of his bruised face. He continued to fight, shutting his eyes again, whilst beginning to hyperventilate. Again, he did not notice that the medical mask and scrub cap of the doctor had been removed. Only when he felt the unusual sensation of a cheekbone against his own and heard the soft, familiar voice of someone he had never expected to hear did he stop struggling.

The voice was trembling slightly, as though holding back sobs. Quietly and earnestly, the voice whispered into his ear.

“You’re safe now…calm down…you’re safe now. I’m going to get you out.”

His eyes went wide with disbelief. Slowly, he turned his head to see if it really was who he had heard it to be. She lifted her head, and smiled at him, but with eyes glistening from angry tears. She swallowed hard as she returned the mask to her face and put her hair up in the scrub cap again. Coolly and calmly, she unlocked the door and simply wheeled him out. Sherlock stared at her in disbelief at her incredible confidence. Gradually, she picked up her speed as she guided the stretcher out through the dark but surprisingly empty corridors of the prison that he had called home for two weeks. Sherlock was wise enough to stay silent, but question after question flooded his brain.

His heart almost stopped when he saw uniformed men and women appear suddenly at one of the gates. However, when he saw Molly nod to them and let them take over the stretcher, he exhaled in relief. Together, the whole group of them began to run - the uniformed guards beside him, the ones pushing his stretcher and of course, the one who had got him out, Molly Hooper.

A vehicle suddenly swerved into view as the doors of what looked like a black ambulance swung open. Molly leapt in first, followed by a few of the guards who then lifted his stretcher and got him safely into the vehicle. Sherlock heard the doors slam shut as the engine revved and sped them away, far away from the hell hole he had only just escaped.

The restraints were finally removed from him and the medical personnel who had been waiting inside began to work. However, Sherlock could not help but flinch when he saw their syringes and scalpels, and sat up, horrified. It was then that Molly took over, placing a firm but gentle hand on his chest to coax him back down. Only Molly could fix the IV needles into him without him reacting. Eventually, she was the only who could administer the local anaesthesia, and the only one who could stitch up his wounds.

She did the best with what she could in the speeding vehicle and managed to stabilise him. His heart rate was no longer erratic and his blood pressure had normalised. With that done, Molly crouched beside him, doing her best to clean off the dried blood and grime that clung to his face and hair. Sherlock could only smile weakly and gratefully at her. He extended a tired, shaking hand towards her and she took it without hesitation.

“You’ll be okay,” she whispered to him, kissing him softly on the forehead.   
“I didn’t know you spoke Serbian,” he said, with an amused but cracked voice. The IV was working, obviously.  
“I didn’t…” she answered, grateful to see him slowly returning to normal. “But your brother made me learn it.”  
“How long did it take you? It wasn’t too bad, you know,” he said.   
“From the moment you left London,” she replied, “In fact, I had my first lesson that very night on the day you _fell_.”  
“That’s a lot of dedication, Molly Hooper,” remarked Sherlock, hissing from pain as he accidentally shifted his IV tube.  
“It was nothing,” she said, smiling.

Sherlock took a moment to take a good look at Molly. Remembering that her hand was still in his, Sherlock brought it up to his lips and kissed it, shutting his eyes as he did so. He was so tired, and his body, so wrecked. He continued to keep her hand against his face, not minding the way it grazed against his wounds. Her hand was soft, cool but most of all, kind and comforting.

“Thank you,” he murmured against the back of her hand as a warm tear of relief slid from his eyes onto her skin.   
“Oh, Sherlock…” she whispered, bending to gently touch her forehead to his, carefully avoiding his wounds.   
“How did you even get in? You could have been killed…” he said, almost ranting. The detective frowned at the thought of her having waded into his dangerous world. “There are so many questions I want to ask…”

He paused to yawn, flinching again because it hurt his jaw that had probably been dislocated several times in the past two weeks.

“Sleep. We can talk tomorrow.” said Molly, gently pushing the hair away from his eyes.   
“Tomorrow. Yes…tomorrow.” he murmured. Molly could see his heavy eyelids slowly shutting.   
“Get some rest,” she whispered, running her thumb over his knuckles.   
“Yes…I will,” he answered quietly, his eyes fully closed now.

Molly was relieved to feel his breaths ease into a slower, far more relaxed rhythm. The monitor that followed his heart rate beeped accordingly.

“Stay?” he mumbled dreamily against her skin.

Molly smiled, making sure their hands stayed firmly intertwined.

“Of course, Sherlock.” she answered, gazing gently at his sleeping figure, “Always.”

**END**


End file.
